Bedridden

From a mound of pillows on my bed
I gaze out into the August morn.
Soft clusters of thick green needles
Lay in dense nests against the robin’s egg sky.
Though I strain to hear them,
No birds sing.
There is only the quiet that comes
From the Earth’s placid indulgence:
A patient vigil
Over mankind itself…
Its determined wait
For the collective foolishness
To at long last end.
Peace
I am alive,
Even though the gentle winds, themselves
Whisper that I should not be.
Perhaps this knowledge has evoked within me
The stoical resolve
To wait, as well.
For tomorrow…
For its meaning…
For my purpose.
Unending